


My Galatea Carries Swords

by Prince_Hamlet



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25438375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_Hamlet/pseuds/Prince_Hamlet
Summary: Jaskier gets way to into ill-advised passion projects all the time. He isn't expecting to actually finish a life-sized marble carving of the witcher he completely made up for blatantly false but extremely catchy ballads. He isn't expecting his statue to step off the dias, something between flesh and stone. He isn't expecting to fall for a man made of marble, no matter how shapely he carved the ass.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The original spark for this was one single line from tumblr user trashbaggage's immortal jaskier post: "imaginary friend geralt accidentally called into being because he was so lonely :("
> 
> The rest of it is loosely inspired by the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea.
> 
> I'll probably upload the rest of this as I finish sections bc... I just want to finish something for once

Jaskier’s paramour, at the time, is quick to remind him what an outrageously stupid undertaking it is as soon as he starts.

“You’re not even a sculptor— at least base it off of someone real, someone who’s been drawn or carved before.” She’s sitting on his bed in his room in Oxenfurt, just in her underdress, watching him smooth tan clay over the metal core made of stolen silverware.

“Where’s the fun in that? I am an artist,” Jaskier wipes a wrist over his forehead, smearing sticky clay into his eyebrows. “I must go where the muse takes me.”

She considers this while watching him form rudimentary legs. “Why a witcher then? You could make a hero of anybody.”

Jaskier does pause at this, then. He looks out the window, where the warm light of dawn has soaked into the white cotton curtains. “It’s kind of tragic, isn’t it?” when he looks back at her she’s just tilted her head at him. “I mean, when you think about it the real witchers were created too, like mine,” he rubs a fond thumb over the malformed calf, “to protect people. And now everyone hates them because of what we made them to be.”

She lays down on the bed. “Tell me about him then, your witcher. Sing me a song.”

So he does. Sings a song of a witcher that never was, noble and strong. And when he sings, the clay forms easier into familiar shapes, skin on muscle on bone.

* * *

  
  


True he had grand ambitions to carve his witcher out of marble, but, come on. He didn’t think he actually would. He was just like that, grand ambitions and no plan, flitting from passion to passion. And the thought of a witcher in marble had just appeared in his head one morning. Far less substance than usual.

But something about the idea stuck. 

He was no sculptor, but that didn’t stop him trying. He churned out drawing after drawing of different poses, putting his favorites in metal and clay, one even got so far as a small casting in plaster before he realized it was all wrong and scraped that train of revisions.

The paramour left him, once he sunk into obsession farther than was fashionable, and he hardly noticed that she’d stopped coming by.

All fine by him, he’d need to do some anatomical studies of a different kind anyway.

He slept with any tall, broad man that caught his eye, and when he did he’d spend time looking, moving his hands and mouth over muscle, committing the shape of them to memory and using it to refine his witcher. 

His nonsense songs about the witcher started taking a more solid form just as the visual image did. The tales had tragedy about them, obviously, what good of a story would it be otherwise? But his witcher, his Geralt, he was as shining as a knight, kind and thoughtful.

Sometimes the passion for the project would fade. 

Jaskeir left Oxenfurt, nothing but his lute and the clothes on his back, singing old classics and new tunes he’d written, none so popular as the ballads of the white wolf. 

But at times he’d see something— a field of wildflowers, where he pictures his white-haired witcher resting for a moment, without his armor, picking the plants for his potions, but pausing a moment to take some chamomile too. Because no one is around and he likes the smell.

Then Jaskier is compelled to close himself in some inn or rented cottage and make clay from river mud or scribble out drawings until his charcoal rubs down or his ink runs dry.

He’s in Rivia, wandering the market, when he sees it. In the back, the stonecutter has chunks of marble rough-hewn from the earth. 

“This one.” Jaskier tells him, a hand on the piece that will become his witcher. “I’ll take it.”

“You a sculptor?”

“Not yet.”

He spends about three months in the room he’s rented making image after image in clay and plaster cast, carving an eye or a hand in marble chips as practice. 

But by the end he knows it wouldn’t matter. The witcher was already in the stone. He just needed to pull him out.

Nearly a year he stays in Rivia all told, chipping and sanding until the floor under his bare feet is covered in a thick layer of stone dust and chips, covered in red clay and charcoal dust up to his elbows. And all the while, he sings. Sings and lets the stone ebb away under his fingers and reveal the true shape underneath. 

The witcher stands in a wide, steady stance, a little forward on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to move at any moment. He’s in his armor, the studs and stitches on the leather adding to his frame, though he’s only as tall as Jaskier. In his right hand he’s holding a few chamomile flowers. His left is empty, and raised a bit from his side— someone has caught him in a quiet moment, and he goes to calm them, to see what’s the matter. His face is forward, and perhaps someone who didn’t know him better would say he’s frowning. But Jaskier knows him perfectly. He can see the little creases in his brow. Concerned, curious. It’s the last detail he carves, moving the tiny tool around, defining every crease in his face. Youthful, but witchers live long enough to collect wrinkles from experience, to look a little tired.

It takes Jaskier a week to admit that he’s done and force himself to put the chisels away before he ruins something.

It’s not… it’s fine, but when he leaves for too long and comes back in the room he can see the mistakes he made. It’s just a little rudimentary.

Ah, well, he’ll do better next time.

By then he’s been in Rivia a while, and he’s made a few friends, a couple enemies, and not much money.

He’s in  ~~ the only bar he hasn’t been banned from ~~ his favorite tavern in the city. The barmaid who’s been eyeing him leans over the counter, preening when his eyes are drawn down the smooth line of her neck. “So, artist,” she says, “how’s your masterpiece coming along.”

“Ah, finished, I believe.” He takes another drink and lets his eyes move back up and linger.

She pouts exaggeratedly. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving us?”

Jaskier eyes the man in the back corner who he vaguely recognizes and who does not look pleased to see him. “I’m afraid so, I must follow where my inspiration goes.”

“What will you do with the statue?”

“Sell it, I suppose. It’s not perfect but hopefully good enough of a first attempt that someone will pay money for it.”

She looks a little sad at that. “You’re not keeping it?”

He laughs. “I don’t see how I’d lug a life-sized marble statue on my journeys.”

She leans back a bit. “Don’t you have some place to call home? Maybe send it to a friend, a wealthy patron?”

He… doesn’t, actually. Have any of that. There’s no love lost for him at Lettenhove. He’s cut ties with the people he knew at Oxenfurt— or dropped ties, or misplaced them somewhere and forgotten to keep track of them. And everywhere else, he’d never stayed long enough to gather anyone. It sinks in now that he’ll be losing his muse soon too.

“My only patron is the love of art itself,” he says instead, smiling at her. She takes the bait for levity.

She lays a hand over his and leans in suggestively. “Is that the only thing you love?”

* * *

  
  


When he stumbles back to his rented room finally, it’s the dead of night and he’s still in the pleasant realm of tipsy.

Which is certainly why, instead of going directly into his bed, he pulls the sheet off Geralt the witcher to look at his softly concerned face in the moonlight. Jaskier sighs as he runs a hand over his witcher’s cheek.

“Perhaps I’ll do you more justice next time,” he mumbles. “At least I’ll have the songs I wrote for you.”

He should just go to bed. It’s just a rock. But he’s been thinking too much of it like a companion. And it’s not like he has anyone else. The barmaid hadn’t had any objections to his leaving right after. Maybe something to do with the engagement ring on her dresser.

So instead he steps up on the platform and presses his lips to the cool marble. 

It does not, at first, strike him as odd when the marble kisses back, or when strong arms come up to hold him steady by the elbows.

Then he opens his eyes and so does Geralt and he’s looking into golden slitted pupils and holy fucking shit holy shit oh fuck.

He takes a step back but forgot he wasn’t standing on the floor and nearly would’ve brained himself on the desk if his fucking marble statue hadn’t caught him and hauled him back up to his feet. 

“I’m…” His statue, his witcher,  _ Geralt _ says, in a voice low and rough as the gravel that litters the floor. And that’s— it’s exactly how he’d imagined it. But he doesn’t seem to know how to end his sentence. 

“You’re the witcher,” Jaskier breathes, feet under him but unsteady as ever. “Geralt… of Rivia.”

Geralt nods, brows still furrowed. Jaskier reaches up, with a hand he realizes is shaking, and tries to smooth it out with a thumb. The skin yields like clay did. Geralt lets him go, abruptly, and takes a step back. He begins examining the room, moving silently despite his heavy boots and armor and two big, scary swords that just a week ago Jaskier had been adding detail to.

“I can tell you more, if you like.”

Geralt turns back to him, and gods but there’s something intoxicating about those eyes being trained on him. Jaskier reaches for his lute without looking, unable to tear his eyes away or stop from stupidly grinning.

“You are the white wolf, the witcher of legend, destined for greatness”

Jaskier plays his ballads while his muse sits still and silent. He pauses between one and another, desperate with curiosity. “Do you… know this? Is this, I don’t know, familiar?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I… remember.”

“Remember?”

“Yes. Like a dream.” He points at the lute. “We got that from the elves?”

“Err, no. In the songs, yes, but ah…” The fine instrument was a gift from his favorite aunt. Not nearly dramatic enough. “I exaggerate, a little bit.”

Geralt nods, but there’s still that confusion in his eyes. Jaskier isn’t sure what to do, so he keeps playing, until he falls asleep draped over his lute.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s— ok, fuck, yeah, Jaskier’s a big enough man to admit he fucked this one up. It might— must be due to the faults in his construction. Waking up, Jaskier half thought it had all been a drunken dream, but there was his hero of myth, still in full armor and swords and everything, chiseled jaw set and sharp eyes watching.

But he wasn’t quite like the stories. Jaskier’s intent was for Geralt to be a soft spoken, thinking man, kind and a little tragic. But perhaps he’d laid the tragedy on a little too thick, or else his mistakes in carving had warped that too. Because “thoughtful” comes across much more like “brooding” and Geralt looks around at the world through his big sad eyes that Jaskier now realizes look much more like they’re glaring. 

They get out of Rivia, fast. He’s sung enough about Geralt that no one questions why there was suddenly a witcher walking around even though most if not all of them died out ages ago. But in Rivia too many people knew Geralt was just a story and would ask too many questions about Jaskier’s missing statue and new friend.

Friend’s a strong word. Not that Jaskier had set out to make a friend or a lover— that is, even if he knew he could, well. Creating a whole person just to love you would be weird, and creepy. But. A companion would’ve been nice. Bringing a statue to life doesn’t necessarily make it much more of a conversationalist. And despite their first interaction, Geralt is decidedly not a touchy-touchy person. He moves away from attempts at human contact, doesn’t even let Jaskier help with the buckles of his armor (ridiculous, really, because Jaskier hadn’t been thinking more about looks than function when he carved it and some of them are very inconveniently placed). 

Geralt seems vague and confused those first few days. Jaskier possibly could’ve been more… consistent, or realistic with his songs, seeing as they are Geralt’s only basis for how the world works. He gets increasingly upset as Jaskier’s tales unravel under further questioning, but none shake him so much as when they enter the next town in midday, and it turns out despite Geralt’s whole, well, made-up-ness, if it looks like a witcher and talks like a witcher, people will apparently spit on it in the streets. Which only closes Geralt off further.

That night he asks Jaskier for all stories of witchers, any song that mentions them that he didn’t write. Jaskier is helpless to refuse his poor, confused creation. He sings all the ones that he knows, good and bad (and worse, and terrible) and summarizes the ones he’s only heard of. Geralt listens with his unmoving scary glare-y face like he's trying to will himself back into marble.

“That’s why I’m trying to write some new songs,” Jaskier finishes weakly. “And now, now there’s you, a heroic witcher popped straight out of legends. Or, well, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“You’re… not exactly what I expected. My fault, I think. I’m not usually a sculptor, you know.”

Geralt doesn’t respond to that except for a twitch of his eyebrow. He nods. Jaskier wants to say something more, something inspiring, but every time he’s tried he seems to just end up sticking his foot in it. He blows out the candle in the room instead, and leaves Geralt to his favorite pastime of brooding while staring blankly at a wall.

They travel together for a few days, and despite everything, Jaskier starts day dreaming of their grand adventure to come. He’s already got three ideas for new white wolf ballads, and now that his muse is actually in front of him, living and breathing and tying his hair up out of the way when it gets hot outside, melodies flow like a mountain stream when the frosts break. And because he’s a bloody romantic at heart most of his day dreams also involve getting glimpses of Geralt's heart of gold through the stony facade.

But it’s not a facade is it? The stone’s a bit more than skin deep.

Less than a week after he kisses a statue to life, Jaskier wakes up to find his witcher had left town in the early hours on horseback.

Which is. Fine. He’s not beholden to stay with Jaskier just because Jaskier’d created him. 

But Jaskier’s in an empty room again anyways.

* * *

He shacks up with the first establishment that’ll house and feed him in return for semi-regular performances. He works out the kinks in the ballads he wrote while traveling with Geralt and finds that some are even becoming a bit popular. But after that no new ideas come to him. Usually he’s already well on the path of a new project by the time he lets go of an old one, but not now. 

Then again he’d never completed a project like Geralt before.

He runs out of inspiration, and then patience, and so he heads back to Oxenfurt. He doesn’t leave anyone behind that he misses more than passingly. 

He’s just about put the whole mess behind him as a brief and incredibly strange digression in his life when he comes back to his room humming and nearly shits himself at a deep voice at his desk saying “Jaskier.”

“Meltile’s fucking tits, Geralt, don’t do that.” Jaskier fumbles his bag down, drinking in the sight of his witcher. He’s sitting straight-backed and stiff in the desk chair again, like he had on the first night. But there’s something wrong, something— “Oh, Geralt. What have you done to yourself?” Jaskier stands in front of him, despondent, forgetting about the aversion to touch as he turns Geralt’s face in his hands, frowning at it like a plaster cast that hadn’t come out right. There’s a crack running down his face and through one eye, which is milky white and still as stone. It’s not quite a scar, not quite an injury, and though the jagged edges of the crack don’t look like rock they certainly feel like it.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Geralt says softly.

“Right.” Jaskier remembers himself and steps back. “Right, well. Show me the damage then, I guess. Old rock-doctor Jaskier will have you good as new in no time.”

There’s one down his calf too, and another across his back. He limps now, favoring the undamaged leg.

It takes Jaskier a few days to consult with the sculpting professors on campus for the right mixture for marble repairs, and he hopes it’s good enough for marble-turned-man, though he doesn’t dare fully explain the situation to anyone. He’s still not sure how he did it or if he’d be able to do it again if confronted by any sexy, scary mages wanting an encore. He’s also not sure what they’d do to his fake witcher. Breathing life into stone seems like it would be against some rule somewhere, and so does impersonating a witcher.

In Jaskier’s room, Geralt sits with his shirt off and pants rolled up to the knee. Jaskier is behind him stirring marble dust into his mix of glue and powder when he asks, “So how did this happen?”

Geralt turns his head only enough for Jaskier to know that he heard and is just being difficult. 

“Come on, Geralt. You know I won’t stop pestering until you tell me.”

“Kikimora got me,” he finally says. “I got too close and it threw me back. I hit a boulder.”

“Kikimora? How did you stumble on one of those? I didn’t think they got anywhere close to the roads.”

“I was contracted to kill it.”

“What? Like a witcher?”

Geralt does turn then, to look over his shoulder. “I am a witcher.”

Jaskier pauses his stirring to fetch a small palette knife. “Yeah. I suppose you are.” He scoops up a bit of glue to start smearing into the fissure on his back. “Well now that you’ve done some proper witchering, got any song writing guidance? A review perhaps?”

Geralt just hmms.

“Come on, three words or less.”

“...They’re not real.”

“Alright three words was too low a bar. What's not real Geralt? The stories?” Jaskier prods Geralt’s shoulder with the palette knife. 

“The monsters. In your songs.”

“Well. You’ll just have to tell me about the real monsters then. Call it payment for the repairs. Tell me your true witchering stories and we’re even.”

Jaskier thanks his past self for writing Geralt as a man who loves fairness, because that does actually get him talking while Jaskier gets into the repairs in earnest.

The glue doesn’t seem to… take, at first. After Jaskier teases the rest of the story out of Geralt they lapse into silence. The glue sits on Geralt’s pale but very human skin. Inspired though, Jaskier starts to hum, already composing his next ballad of the white wolf. The next pass of the knife presses the glue into his skin, and it stays, filling the gap like it was never there. 

So that’s. Something. Geralt had glared when Jaskier started to hum but he must feel it working too.

After that the calf is easy to fix. 

But his face…

Jaskier turns Geralt’s chin up and toward the window, carefully. The fissure looks like the other two injuries, but the eye has gone still and smooth, marble again. He starts filling in the edges, singing as he goes, but he already knows he won’t be getting the eye back this way.

“Stay another few days,” he says. “I want to try something else.”

Geralt does stay. He disappears often during the day but at night he’s back, laying his bedroll out on the floor. When he is in the room he doesn’t seem to mind when Jaskier enters a state, pouring through old books on stonework, pottery, repair. His presence is comforting, and Jaskier starts talking at him like he did during the whole carving process, delighted when Geralt occasionally talks back. Usually to contradict him, but there’s no malice in it.

He grinds up one of his old rings for the gold powder and mixes it with lacquer. Geralt has to lay back while he drips it across the line of damage and into the frozen eye until the gold liquid covers the surface and pools in the corners of his eye and trickles down his face like tears. When Jaskier wipes away the extra, Geralt can blink again. The lacquer is merged in like the glue on his back but the line of the scar is still visible. The eye is now pure gold, but Jaskier can see it move back and forth. 

“Can you…” he covers Geralt’s other eye. “Can you see with it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good.” That’s fucking weird. When did his life get so fucking weird. 

Geralt’s gone in the morning. Jaskier’s new white wolf ballads (now with added facts!) do well enough to gain him some fame, and now when he travels he can take a carriage and stay in the nicer parts of the major cities.

He doesn’t always, because he wants to keep an eye out for a head of unnatural white hair. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments and kudos, it's really helping me keep going. I'm gonna try and post daily til it's done cause otherwise i'll never get around to it.
> 
> i have no idea how jaskier brought a statue to life and i will not elaborate. sometimes adhd makes you hyperfixate so hard you make a person and you just have to deal with the consequences.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier doesn’t see Geralt again for a while. His new-found popularity means he can linger more in towns and cities, and he makes a point to be sure people remember the name of Jaskier the bard. Not just for the money and glory (although money and glory are factors in any of his decisions) but because it would make it easier for, say, a self-sacrificing living statue to hunt him down if need be.

It must work, because Geralt catches up with him in a tavern at a waypoint though the mountains, arm nearly broken off, hiding the half-petrified limb in a sling. They have to travel together through the rest of the pass before Jaskier can find the materials he needs. It’s actually easier, than it was when they traveled together before. Jaskier gets the sense, next to a fire late at night, that Geralt wasn’t sure what he was at first, especially in relation to the man that had more or less made him from nothing. He talks more confidently now, and Jaskier is pleased to find that he’s funny too, in a dry, quiet way that always surprises him.

Can’t really save the arm. They have to break it the rest of the way off so Jaskier can get metal rods in both sides to support it, like the first clay-and-spoons drafts. It turns fully to stone once it’s off, like the eye did. And like the eye, he can reattach it with marble dust and flour and glue, but it won’t move again until he’d filled up the joint with golden lacquer, leaving a thin band running around Geralt’s arm like a strange, uneven tattoo. 

They travel together for a few weeks after, Jaskier claiming he wants to make sure Geralt’s arm doesn’t fall off, and Geralt accepting the excuse well enough.

Geralt keeps watch most nights, the low firelight glinting off the full golden eye. Hard to tell where he’s looking sometimes, but some nights Jaskier thinks Geralt’s watching him instead of the woods.

“Funny,” Jaskier says in the morning, “that you need to eat but not sleep.”

Geralt looks confused. “I need to sleep.”

“Oh but you— I’ve never seen you sleep.”

“I…” Geralt looks away. “I don’t need much, of either food or sleep. But when I do sleep, I often get… nightmares.”

“Oh. About what?”

“I don’t know.”

Geralt disappears again soon after that. Once it’s clear that the arm is fine and there’s no real reason for them to travel together.

Jaskier wheedles his way into a cushy position as some minor duke’s court bard soon after. He makes sure that he gets a room and a workshop, and though he’s rather more into painting these days he keeps it well stocked with sculpting equipment. It’s an easy enough time, entertaining, but the courtiers are stuffy, political bastards, and Jaskier often finds himself in his workshop making little clay pinch-pots and thinking about campfires and Geralt’s stupid, crass humor and a golden eye catching the light. 

He finds Geralt waiting for him outside the gate one afternoon, missing three fingers from his left hand. Jaskier just shakes his head fondly and nods him inside the gates.

“Honestly, Geralt, we have to stop meeting like this.”

Geralt says he couldn’t save the fingers, though he won’t say what happened. Jaskier makes him new ones with clay and animal bones. He spends a few hours with Geralt’s hand in his lap, working with the little metal tools to get the shape of them just right, humming his song about a witcher’s duty so they know what they’re supposed to do. The pristine fingernails of the new fingers are in stark contrast to the ones beside them, crusted with dirt and ichor and gods know what else.

Jaskier tsks. “This just won’t do. You, my friend, need a bath.”

“We’re not friends,” Geralt responds, automatically.

“Would you prefer my statue then?” Jaskier looks him in the eyes, a challenge. “Because I don’t think you’re quite that anymore.”

Geralt frowns. “I don’t need a bath,” he tries.

“Please. As your friend, your artist, or simply your barker, you’re doing me a disservice by walking around like this.”

He bullies Geralt into staying for a bath, a nice one, with oils and balt salts and all that. Geralt stands hesitantly near the water, shooting Jaskier and the bath sideways glances. Jaskier’s still busy finding something that will improve the condition of Geralt’s horribly matted hair. Jaskier shoos him. “Go on, the water won’t hurt you.”

He grumbles something, but takes off his nasty clothes anyway and slides into the water. When Jaskier steps around, brandishing a bottle of hair oil, Geralt attempts to take it.

“Ah ah, allow me.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Clearly you can’t be trusted to take care of these lovely long locks I so painstakingly carved for you.”

“Why give me long hair anyway? It’s impractical,” Geralt growls. It’s sudden and, quite frankly, rude. Jaskier sputters and puts his hands on his hips indignantly.

“Well, why don’t you cut it all off if you hate it so much, hm?”

Geralt glares at him. Jaskier realizes that he already knows the answer. He’d nearly forgotten, because he figured the song was too sad to play in taverns, so he only ever sang it to charcoal and clay. “You do like it though, don’t you? You tell yourself it’s because it’s a brand, a warning, but really you just want to look like those knights in the stories your mother read you when you were a child.”

“I was never a child."

“I know that, obviously.”

“So it’s just a story, it’s not real.” 

“Stories _are_ real, Geralt.”

“But it never happened!” he snaps his big scary witcher teeth in a move that may have intimidated someone else.

“But you remember it, don’t you? And it’s written down. That makes it about as real as any other piece of the past. Truth and history keep very little company, Geralt, and the important thing is that  _ you _ remember it, and that it affects  _ your _ actions, and because you and your actions are real, it is real. You’re a story made life, Geralt, how can you think that it doesn’t matter?”

Geralt doesn’t have an answer for any of that. He just sits there with the look Jaskier carved on him, confusion and concern in his big sad eyes. Eye. Eyes? Whatever, the point is.

“The point is if you’re not going to cut your hair you might as well take care of it.” 

Geralt relents, somewhat, or at least is caught off guard enough that Jaskier can slip behind him to start on his hair. Either way, he is already counting this whole affair as a win.

And then he sees Geralt’s back.

“Geralt…” he sucks in a breath and pushes Geralt’s matted hair over his shoulder and trails careful fingers over the chips and pockmarks that cover his back. No wonder he’s stiff, they’re all rough at the edges and there’s so many. Geralt’s gone quiet and still again, like the statue he isn’t. Jaskier tries to remember when he last saw Geralt shirtless, and gods it must’ve been when he fixed the eye but that was ages ago. It’s hard to tell the age of the strange not-stone-not-skin wounds but some are as dirty as the rest of him and some are clean, nearly fresh. “What happened? Why didn’t you tell me so I could, I could fix it.”

Geralt keeps facing forward. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“Doesn’t—” The limp. The arm. The fingers. He only comes back when he has to. When it affects his work, his duty. “It bothers me,” Jaskier says. Geralt’s sitting with his arms over the edge of the tub, gripping the sides, tense. Jaskier kneels by the side, tries to catch Geralt’s eyes. “Geralt, talk to me. What’s wrong? What happened?”

Geralt whips around. “Why did you make me a witcher?” he growls.

“What?”

“You said— I was supposed to be great, a hero of destiny.” He spits out “destiny” like the taste offends him. “So why make me a fucking witcher?”

Jaskier sits back on his heels he has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going. “Dunno, really. Thought it was, romantic? You know, death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak, that kind of thing.” Geralt scoffs. “And I guess… well they seemed terribly lonely. Doing something so necessary for no thanks at all.” That catches Geralt’s attention. “Just going place to place, no connections anywhere. Thought if that were me, I’d like to be remembered kindly.”

“And what does a bard know about loneliness?” Geralt accuses.

Jaskier shrugs. “Sure, it’s not the same, but there’s a loneliness in only being other people’s passing fancies. Not being able to sit still long enough to leave a mark anywhere or on anyone. You know you’re the only passion I ever really saw through.” Jaskier taps his fingers along his knee. “I could write songs about that I suppose but it’s not nearly as interesting as a cool, sexy monster hunter with a couple of swords.”

Geralt snorts and turns away to slosh some water over his arms, using new fingers to rub grime off the thin gold band on his arm. 

“Geralt? Did people do this to you because you’re a witcher? Did they, what, stone you out of town?” Geralt’s pained glare is answer enough. “Those bastards. Those bastards!” Jaskier stands to pace and flail as he rants. “The nerve of them, to damage a genuine work of art over some petty prejudice! And yes, before you say something about my pride I would say the same exact thing even if I hadn’t made you with my own two hands. This isn’t vanity Geralt, this is just common decency. You didn’t choose to be a witcher any more than any other witcher did, and you wouldn’t hurt a fly that didn’t deserve it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, yes I do though. You are noble, and kind, and if I could revise any of my original tales I’d make you a tad less humble so you couldn’t sit here giving me that look just waiting for a chance to deny it.” He drops back down, across from Geralt, pointing aggressively. “Tell me their names, Geralt, I will ruin their reputations, I will make their towns poison to travelers. I will tell everyone that they, they all have pox-ridden dicks and their cows’ milk is full of pus. Or maybe I’ll go over there myself with your big scary witcher swords and just behead the bastards.” While he wasn’t looking Geralt had started laughing. It was just a half smile and some breathy chuckles, but the sound was as familiar as Jaskier’s own heartbeat. “Do you doubt it?” 

“No, I’m sure you’d try, bard.” 

“At least let me fix the damage,” Jaskier said softly. He flicked water at Geralt’s face. “And wash your hair. Do you know how long those glorious locks took me to craft? I nearly made you bald out of frustration.” 

“Fine,” Geralt conceded. 

“Good.” Jaskier gets up to pour a bucket of water over Geralt’s head and get to work. “And Geralt?”

“Yes?” he sighs.

“No more secrets. You’ll tell me, next time, when you’re hurt, alright? Even if you don’t think it matters.” Geralt doesn’t respond. Jaskier rubs oil into his scalp and starts working his comb through the ends of Geralt's hair . “Come on, at least lie to me a little.”

“Sure, bard. No more secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *picks out the parts of canon I like and discreetly spits the rest out into a napkin under the table*
> 
> There will be one or two more chapters?? probably. which,, i've definitely written,,, and i for sure know where im going with this, definitely..
> 
> If you are liking this, or if this made you sad, please consider leaving a comment bc sometimes they help me out. also bc i like to know when i cause emotional pain


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier takes his time in his workshop with Geralt, filling in the gaps and resculpting all the back muscles until they’re symmetrical and shift fluidly with every arm movement. Geralt shows him a few other chips and scratches, including one on his shapely ass that Jaskier bemoans for an entire hour as a crime and a tragedy.

  
When he’s done with the repairs and cleaned up, he makes Geralt stay laid out on his table for a bit longer.

“Come on, you’re still tense even when parts of you haven’t been turned back to rock. A little massage never hurt anybody. And I have chamomile oil.”

That’s enough to convince him. Chamomile is Geralt's favorite.

It’s only when Geralt has gone malleable under his hands again that he thinks to ask what’s been bothering him.

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“Do you… regret, not being a statue?” Geralt’s eyes blink open, but it’s the gold one facing Jaskier. Harder to read, that one. “I know there’s lots of monsters trying to kill you and people trying to cheat you and all that but. It’s not all bad is it? There must be some things you enjoy.”

Geralt taps his fingers on the table. “I like… my horse. And bring out in the woods and under the stars. And helping people. And sometimes on hunts I find the body of a witcher, a real witcher, and I can bury them.”

“That makes you happy?”

“No, but, I am glad there is someone still to mourn them. A legacy that isn’t just blood.” 

Jaskier pauses, and shakes his head. “How could I have possibly created you. You’re much more noble than I, dear witcher.”

* * *

This. This is new. Jaskier looks up at Geralt on his horse, sun shining through his hair. 

He’d slunk off, initially, but then he just… came back.

And not for repairs, not because anything’s wrong. He was just there in Jaskier’s workshop, letting Jaskier bother him for a tale. When he did finally ask why, Geralt shifted uncomfortably.

“Wanted to make sure you weren’t making something more dangerous than witchers here.”

It’s a deflection but that’s just how they are with each other.

“Ha ha. I’ll have you know I try to stick to still life these days. And I do not sing while I work.”

“Good to know.”

He came back a couple times after that. Once or twice for repairs, sure, minor stuff. And he claims the rest of the time that Jaskier was just in a convenient place, easy to pass through. 

So, when Jaskier gets bored of the court again, the next time Geralt appears, he announces they’ll be traveling together and then they are. And although Geralt will occasionally speed up Roach when Jaskier is “finding new depths of irritation to sink to” as he puts it, he hasn’t tried to leave him behind again in a while. Jaskier would even say that Geralt’s growing fond of him.

They’re having a lovely dinner in a town where so far no one has tried to spit on either of them when a mysterious stranger slides onto the bench across from them, eyeing Geralt like he’s a particularly tasteful morsel.

“Well,” says the hooded woman, “When I heard there was a witcher in town, I could hardly believe it. But here you are.”

“Yes, here he is, Geralt of Rivia, the witcher of legend,” Jaskier says. Miss Dark and Mysterious does not grant him much more than a sliding look. “I’m sure you’ve heard the songs, most of which, wouldn’t you know, are written by yours truly. Now—”

“To find not just a witcher, but one with white hair. How rare that must be. There’s so little known about the witchers that were given extra mutagens.”

Geralt glances at Jaskier and shifts a bit in his seat. “Yes.”

“Would you be interested in imparting some of your knowledge on a scholar? I must know where you’ve been hiding away all this time.”

“No.”

“No?” Something in Spooky Lady’s eyes shifts, but then she sits back and shrugs. “Well, it was worth asking. Straight to business then. I have a job for you, witcher.”

“What kind of job?”

“There are reports of a dragon up the mountain near here. I’d like someone to look into it who preferably would be able to hold their own well enough to report back, should they find it.” She smiles, and her teeth are too perfect.

Geralt narrows his eyes at her. Jaskier, distinctly uncomfortable, loudly pipes in. “Aren’t dragons, ah, extinct?”

“Aren’t witchers?” Tall, Dark, and Ominous replies. 

“You’re wasting your time,” Geralt says. “I don’t kill dragons.”

“Pity. I’m sure this would be a most interesting hunt. You know, it is said that coming face to face with a dragon reveals to a man his destiny." She leans forward, eyes set on Geralt. "It might be just the way to find what you’re missing.”

“What am I missing?” Geralt demands, but The Omen In The Vague Shape of a Woman has already gotten up.

“As you said, you don’t kill dragons. Farewell, witcher.” Geralt glares at the space where she was sitting while she leaves the tavern.

Jaskier gives a low whistle. “Well. That certainly was a strange encounter, huh Geralt? Geralt?”

Geralt gets up and follows the damn riddlemistress out the door.

“Fucking— Geralt!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot? Plot???? 
> 
> Anyway I have actually figured out where I'm going with this now so I just need to write it. this work Will Be Finished, by god. This chapter is short cause I needed to post something and stop working on it. There will be, max like 2 more chapters. 
> 
> anyway thx for yalls support as usual, it's crazy to me how many people are subscribed to this. leave a comment if u want, i love validation


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sorceress isn't supposed to be yennifer sorry for the confusion :(
> 
> edit: oops! posted a slightly unfinished version of the chapter. make sure you read the one where jaskier doesn't get knocked out right away

Mountains! Ah, mountains. Terrible, overrated pieces of landscape, the lot of them. Absolutely lousy with little rocks and pokey shrubbery, both of which seem to be making a determined effort to destroy Jaskier’s (brand new!) outfit and boots.

“Geralt,” Jaskier pants. “We’re aware that this is a monumentally bad idea, right? As in, we are agreed that this is stupid and ill-advised, yes?” Geralt does not stop his steady, sure footed stride up the slope. Jaskier picks a pebble off the ground. “And we are, therefore, also agreed, that if you stopped thinking with your dick—” He chucks the rock and unexpectedly it hits its mark, bouncing harmlessly off Geralt’s pauldron. 

Geralt turns and snaps, “No one said you have to come, bard.”

“Are you joking? If you met with a real, bona fide dragon and I was not there to write about it I may as well hang up my lute and become a farm hand.  _ The Ballad of the Witcher and the Dragon _ has the makings of my most popular work yet.”

“Then what’s the problem?” He’s baring his teeth, which is his I’m-being-sensitive-and-trying-to-hide-it face.

“The  _ problem _ is that even I, of notoriously bad judgement and few self-preservation skills, know better than to get mixed up was a sorceress, especially one that wants something.” Jaskier takes the argument that they’re apparently stopping to have as an opportunity to sit on the nearest boulder and shake yet more rocks out of his boots. “And surely you noticed she was a sorceress. That woman was far too sexy and, and intense to be a normal person. She practically dripped with magic.”

“I know.”

“Ok, so, back to my original point then of we’re agreed this is stupid right?”

Geralt growls, “I can handle myself.” 

“I know that. And you know that.” He gestures with his boot. “So what exactly are we proving by going on some kind of wild goose chase?”

“There is a chance there is actually a dragon.”

“A dragon you wouldn’t want to kill.” Geralt gets incrementally grumpier and starts walking again. Jaskier has to hurriedly pull his boot back on and hop to catch up. “Geralt, even if you are dead set of getting under this witch’s skirt, surely there are better ways than—”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” Geralt purses his lips and looks away, which is his I-may-be-on-the-verge-of-expressing-an-emotion face. “Come on, Geralt. Talk to me.”

Geralt sighs. “Destiny.”

“Destiny? Since when do you care about destiny?”

Geralt stops dead, and Jaskier turns in surprise to see a dumbfounded look on his face. “What?”

“Well. I thought you were against the whole concept.” Jaskier shifts his lute strap. “Not that uncommon. I myself certainly don’t put much stock in it.”

“You. What? You wax poetic about destiny at least once an hour. It’s in nearly every one of your songs.”

“Of course. It’s great fodder for poetry and songs, a very convenient and romantic narrative tool. But in real life? Nah, I don’t think I buy it.”

“But you— you said I was supposed to be some hero of destiny, that I was supposed to preserve the legacy of witchers.”

“I mean in the songs, sure, but—”

“In the songs. But I didn’t come out right, did I? So what’s my destiny now, a fake witcher and a half-assed statue?” he demands.

“Hang on, when did I say that?”

“At the beginning, you said I didn’t come out right.” 

“That’s not— Geralt, I said you weren’t what I expected.”

“Exactly!”

“No. No, no, you are twisting my words around. Of course you’re not what I expected, I wasn’t even expecting you to come to life. I wrote a character, and you’re a whole,” Jaskier gestures up and down, as if he could communicate everything Geralt is. “A whole person! With thoughts, and feelings— however much you may deny it. I couldn’t have come up with half the things you’ve said or done. Who cares if you’re not ‘Geralt the Legendary Witcher,’ you’re Geralt of Rivia! Fuck destiny, I wouldn’t care if you became a, a— fisherman, or whatever.”

Geralt’s lips are parted, like he’s waiting for words to form behind his teeth. Obviously, they don’t come. 

Jaskier runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Look, why don’t we abandon this fool’s errand? Get away somewhere. The coast, maybe. You can’t just go around hunting down dead witchers’ destinies. You have to… do what pleases you.”

And for a moment it almost seems like he will. But he hears something that makes his head snap around. He reaches for his sword, but his hand freezes halfway up. His eye turns to Jaskier, but his head is stuck still. Jaskier turns to run like the coward he is but he doesn’t get far before someone grabs him by the elbow and yanks him back.

“Get rid of the bard, he’s worthless.” Of course it’s the fucking sorceress, and with several very large, well-armed men to boot. They could just be brigands but they walk like soldiers, rough and efficient. She strides up to where Geralt is trapped. “Look at you. The last witcher. What a specimen you are.” 

The man holding Jaskier tries to pull him closer, but Jaskier slips out of his (thankfully already unbuttoned) doublet, throwing off the lute as he goes. He hits the ground running, and thanks his many years of experience weaseling away from cuckolds and angry parents for the instincts that let him dodge around the next man and scramble up a nearby boulder to launch himself off of, towards the slope down the mountain. He notices the man on the other side too late, and is already flinging himself off the rock when he sees the dagger aimed for his heart. He just has time enough to twist in the air and knock into him, but he feels white-hot pain rip up his side, and he’s left breathless with it.

Oh gods, this is how he’ll die.

Two man grab him and pull him back toward the path, forcing him to kneel while one holds his head by the hair and the other pulls his knife.

“Stop! Let him go, he’s just a bard.” It barely gets out through Geralt’s gritted teeth, but the sorceress raises her hand anyway, turning to Jaskier with interest. For the first time, she actually looks directly at him, and the icy blue of her eyes holds him as much as the ruffians about to kill him. Jaskier breathes hard, sure he can feel the cold steel at his throat and the blood soaking down his leg.

“I was wrong. Perhaps he isn’t completely useless. Take him with us.” 

The knife leaves his throat and hits him over the head instead. Jaskier crumples, and in the fading dark he hears something like musical self assured laughter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know. I could've maybe extended this convo and made it the last chapter. but now I've committed to this plot thing and written the very end of this so im in this bitch now.
> 
> For real for real only one or two more chapters. probably one but i might break it into two because it'll be a little long otherwise. 
> 
> Yall got any fave lines so far? In any chapter, I feel like i got a couple good ones in there

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you enter a fugue state and write for several hours straight instead of doing anything you should be doing and you're VALID.
> 
> If you're still waiting on one of my WIPs... I'm sorry, I'm also disappointed, I will get to it I promise.
> 
> Obligatory "I haven't read the books, I don't know what a video game is" etc etc
> 
> If u liked it and especially if I made you sad please drop a comment with your favorite line, image, or just general outrage or feelings. it will help me finish quicker. Or you can yell at me @prince-hamlet on tumblr


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